Colloquialisms of the Wizarding World
by Wingedteen
Summary: Dumbledore watched them have another one of their spats, and he hears a few familiar names. Camelot, Morgana, the Knights. He realises belatedly what this would imply- these two strangers, named Arthur and Merlin, talk about Camelot as if they live there!


**Yes, I have skipped to Merlin fandom briefly. It's only a temporary bout of insanity! Trust me! Not catching, even!**

**Merlin and Harry Potter crossover. C'mon, you've wondered! : D**

--

Dumbledore was enjoying a cup of sweet tea and a few lemon drops in the peace of his office. All of the portraits of Hogwart's previous headmasters had gone down into the dungeon to have tea and crumpets with a gathering of other old portraits, and Dumbledore was appreciative of the quiet. No snoring portraits, no interruptions from the staff this evening. Just Dumbledore, some muggle literature, and his cup of tea.

Unfortunately, the savouring of his sweet beverage was interrupted by a swirling mass of light, a humming crackling sound, and finally a loud pop.

Dumbledore blinked over his teacup, spectacles slipping down his nose.

Two figures stood frozen in the middle of the room, seemingly in the middle of yelling at one another. A broad blonde man was shaking a fist in his companion's face, eyebrows drawn low over blue eyes. The second, a dark-haired, strangely dressed boy, younger and thinner than his blonde friend, was holding his hands up in surrender, his mouth open wide as if caught mid sentence.

Time seemed to catch up with them, both moving sluggishly as if through water. Then Dumbledore blinked, and they yelling.

"I'M SORRY, ARTHUR, I'M SORRY!"

"You stupid, stupid idiot! How many times have I told you not to touch anything, _ANYTHING_," this was punctuated by a sharp rap to the back of the other's head, "if you don't know what it is?!" the blonde man seemed to have worked himself into quite a fit, Dumbledore mused, detachedly feeling his spectacles slip off his nose and tumble into his abandoned tea cup. Oh, my.

The 'plunk' and tinkle seemed to alert the newcomers to his presence, and both their heads whipped around, lightning fast.

"What in _God's_ name-"

It really was rather typical; he never could get any peace around here.

--

After Dumbledore had been held at sword point and interrogated, he had cleaned off his spectacles and managed to glean from the pair's conversation that their names were Merlin and Arthur. How quaint.

Then he watched them have another one of their spats –they must be quite common, he thinks, they're like an old married couple- and he hears a few familiar names. Camelot, Morgana, the Knights. He realises belated what this would imply- these two strangers, named Merlin and Arthur, talking about Camelot as if they live there.

His spectacles take another dip in the cooling tea.

--

The first time Merlin hears the phrase "Merlin's beard!", his hand goes automatically to his chin, convinced that someone is making comments about his facial hair. The skin there is as smooth as usual, however. He looks up, confused, only to see that the funny little man wasn't talking to him at all, rather a student. No one is even looking in his direction.

By the end of the week, however, he's heard everything from "Merlin's boots, my dear boy!" to "by Merlin's frilly undergarments- there's a mugwump in the toilets!".

Arthur finds this very funny, Merlin finds it very not.

By now, Merlin has accepted that it must be a local colloquialism, for people to randomly shout about Merlin's facial hair, or clothing (frilly or not). He asks Dumbledore about this, one night.

"Is there a reason why people around here seem fond of shouting my name?" he asks, scratching a spot on his throat just below his neckerchief (which he had refused to take off, school regulations be damned!).

Dumbledore's eyes are doing this strange twinkling thing, something that he's only ever seen the dragon do on one of its good days, when he informs Merlin that around here, he's "somewhat of a celebrity".

Merlin's jaw is so low he must be collecting flies by now.

--

Arthur was raised to hate magic and its casters, so when faced with this strange new place filled with it, he does the logical thing. He makes a tactical retreat to his assigned quarters and rarely ventures out. Merlin calls it "Sulking in his room".

Which he is not. Really.

He's Prince Arthur, dammit! Crowned heir to the throne of Camelot!

For all the good it will do him here. He may as well be any common servant!

On the third day, Arthur realises that maybe some part of him has always wanted to be just a normal peasant. Free of his duties, honours and responsibilities. Isn't that what he set out to do, that time with Gwen and the fake hunting trip?

By the end of the week (still _not_ _sulking, _Merlin), he's ready to take a sword to his leg, if only to stave off the boredom.

He creeps out of his quarters, down several flights of (oh God, are they _moving_?) stairs, and promptly gets lost.

Eventually he caves, and asks a portrait for directions to the kitchens. He'd like to meet the fine cooks who have been sending up meals to his room.

He reaches the right portrait (tickle the pear, really! What kind of security is this?) and, upon stepping inside, is suddenly faced with dozens of large, adoring eyes set into the wide faces of several strange creatures. After a second, they all rush at him, tripping over their own feet. Shouts of, "It's a Pendragon! A Pendragon!", "Get your elbow out of my face!" and "Shh, let me see!" echoed through the kitchens, as a tumbling mass of thin limbs knocked Arthur off his feet.

Dear God. He should have just stayed in bed.


End file.
